


A Second Time

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, But he'll show up soon, Croatoans, Dead John, Dean and Mary are tight, Demons, Gen, Human Castiel, Lawrence - Freeform, No Slash, Sam and Dean are slightly less tight but still tight too, Sam's at Stanford right now so they can't be so tight, Soldier Castiel, Stanford Era, Time Travel, and he would only complicate things, because convenient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a soldier from the year 2041.  The battle against the Croatoan virus has been lost, so Commander Dean Winchester gives him a final order: go back in time to make things right.  He ends up in the year 2004.  Things will happen.  Dramatic things.  *squiggly magic fingers*  (Alternate Canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Eeep. Hi. This is the first fic I'm posting on this website, and hopefully the first fic I finish, ever.
> 
> There are two things you should know:
> 
> 1\. This is not the same universe as the show, though it is similar.  
> \--Basically, don't assume anything.  
> \--The supernatural still exists, and there are some familiar characters behaving in familiar ways (or at least there will be once I write them in) but if you assume things went the way they did in the show you are going to be very confused.
> 
> 2\. I might not finish this. I might not write another sentence. But I'll try! And you know what would make me try harder? Feedback :D Love. Support <3

 The dying man's hands trembled slightly as he gripped the cell bars, but his green eyes were still bright as he gave the young soldier his final orders. The younger man bowed his dark head, listening intently to his instructions and committing every word to memory. As the man died, so did the day-- the pale afternoon sun darkened as they sat talking, until the two were scarcely more than silhouettes. No one came to interrupt them or bring a candle, because there was no one left to do so. Uninterrupted, the two men spoke for nearly two hours; after the instructions had been spoken, other topics arose: regrets, fears, and, at last, hopes. It was the older man's last chance to speak his peace, and could very well be the younger man's, too.

A silence spread before the younger man confessed, quietly, "I hope I can change things." The last traces of sunlight glinted in his shadowed eyes, betraying fear and bravery in equal measure. "I hope I'm strong enough to, and... and I hope you don't have to die like this, sir."

The dying man snorted, gripping the bars tighter as the trembling in his hands intensified. "Don't call me sir, kid. It's just us two left. And for the record, I hope I don't die like this, either. I'm expecting a white hospital bed, crying grandkids and a death from old age the next time around, you hear me?"

"I'll do my best, si-- I'll do my best," the younger man said. The silence blossomed as he studied what he could see of the dying man's face in the fading light. It looked tired, but not yet tired enough for death to come fairly. The jaw was still strong, though beginning to weaken, and the brown hair was peppered with gray. The eyes were rapidly losing their clarity, alerting the young man to the realization that only minutes remained. But the lips, still full, quirked up.

"Damn straight you will. And kid..." His eyes searched the younger man's face, catching the worry and doubt, "Don't feel too bad. Whatever happens, you're getting another shot, which is more than anyone ever gets." His words began to slur, and but he continued with some effort. "So if you can't stop this, try'n live a good life, you hear me? Find a girl or a guy, however you swing and hunker down, stock up, live as long and as happy as you can before it all goes to hell. You got that?" His last words are nearly choked out.

"Yes," the younger man said quickly, pulling away from the bars. "I will. Is it--"

The older man jerked his head in a violent nod. "It's... time," he growled.

With shaking hands, the younger man stood and picked up the shotgun in the corner. He leveled it at the older man, but hesitated. His last companion on earth stood behind the bars, transforming, but he stood frozen, unable or unwilling to stop the transformation.

"Now!" the older man gasped, and the young man was jolted out of his trance. His finger twitched and the trigger was pulled. The blast echoed through the empty jail, ringing in the young man's ears as he became, truly and finally, alone.

Lowering the shotgun, Castiel looked at the corpse one final time before walking off to begin preparations.

* * *

Dean Winchester slammed against a tree like a rag doll as the spirit outstretched an arm, glaring at him menacingly. It held him there for a long moment, pinned and unable to breathe, before vanishing into the 3 AM darkness. Dropping to the ground knocked the wind out of his already burning lungs, so it took a minute for him to moan, "Mom?" And then, shouting once his lungs reinflated and his vision cleared, "Mom, behind you!"

Mary Winchester turned around in time to slice the blade of her iron shovel through the ghost. It dissipated instantly, though temporarily, and she turned back to the grave she was emptying. The old skeleton was almost completely unearthed. A few more shovelfuls of soil, and she dropped the shovel, reaching for the bag of rock salt beside her, which she poured into the grave.

Gasoline came next, drizzled generously over the grisly concoction. Dean was just getting to his feet when things went south.

Mary was thrown off her feet by the unseen spirit-- and into the grave. Then the rest of the gasoline flew after her, drenching her and the rest of the corpse.

"Mom, are you okay?" Dean ran toward her, pulling the pistol from his waistband and scanning the area for the ghost. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw its eerie, glowing form, and he turned suddenly, firing thrice in rapid succession. It vanished again, flickering wickedly.

He raced the remaining distance to the grave and got on his stomach, offering his arms for Mary to grab onto. "Hold on, I'll pull you out. Do you have any footholds?"

"The soil's too loose. You're gonna have to do the heavy lifting, Dean."

He could sense quiet panic in her tone. "It's okay, I got you. Count of three-- one, two..." He pulled as she tried to scrabble over, but she slid back. She was fit and incredibly agile for a woman of fifty, but she was still fifty. "Okay, let's try this again."

"Keep an eye out for the ghost," she reminded him.

"Yeah. One, two, three!" He grunted, pulling her harder until her hips cleared the surface and she shimmied out of the grave. They lay there panting for a minute, recovering.

The moment of peace ended when the ghost reappeared, cutting towards them.

"Dean!" Mary shouted, and he fumbled for his gun and fired as she grabbed the matchbox from her jacket pocket. His aim was true, and it vanished again. She pressed the matches into his hand, saying, "You do it. I'm soaked in gas, and I'd rather not get burned alive."

He didn't hesitate, striking a match and dropping it in, sighing in relief as the flames took and enveloped the skeleton in the blaze. The ghost appeared in front of them for only an instant before burning up as well.

"You good, Mom?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the fire.

"Yes, Dean," she said, glancing towards him. "Or I will be once I get this gas off my skin. Are you?" Studying her son, she noted the smudge of dirt on his cheek and the scrapes on his forearms.

"Peachy," he grinned, eyes glowing bright in the firelight.

* * *

They were home three hours later. The graveyard was only an hour away from their home in Lawrence, but Mary and Dean had a tradition of going to a diner for pie after a successful hunt, and it was a tradition that couldn't be missed, ungodly hour be damned. There was a little 24-hour place in the next town over that they frequented. Dean got a slice of apple and Mary passed, claiming that adults of a certain age shouldn't eat junk food past a certain hour. She had tea, instead.

By the time they got home, both were exhausted, and after washing up their various bumps and scrapes and kissing good night kisses on the cheek, they fell into their respective beds, and finally, into their respective dreams.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter two, we've made it!  
> I GOT MY FIRST COMMENT ON THIS WEBSITE :D  
> That's exciting. Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Also, here's a disclaimer: as much as I've tried to resist, this is probably gonna end up with some Destiel vibes, if only for the reason that I've read a loooooot of Destiel lately and it's bleeding through. However, it's not going to get sexual, and it's more than likely it's not going any farther than a "profound bond" between the two of them. 
> 
> Just in case anyone was wondering :)

Mary dreamt of her parents; Dean dreamt of an angel.

  
At least, that's what he thought the other man must be, with his dark blue eyes and wild, dark brown hair that blew in all directions in the gusty desert wind. An avenging angel, soldier of God, or so he seemed, shoulders squared and eyes focused. The man strode towards him with purpose, tattered coat flapping madly behind him.

  
"Dean Winchester!" he shouted in gravely voice over the roar of the wind. "I'm coming for you very soon." Dust from the road they stood on was lifted into the air, making it difficult to see, and Dean stepped closer, trying to see the man more clearly. The bright sun in the flat blue sky made his eyes water.

  
"Who are you?" Dean asked in a level voice that somehow carried. "Why are you coming?"

  
"I'll explain when I get there," the man shouted again, pushing closer still. "My name is Castiel."

  
He even had the name of an angel, Dean thought in wonder, and instinctively trusted the man, though he felt a burning curiosity blossom. "Where'll I find you?" he asked, squinting and moving closer still as the world grew brighter. "When?"

  
"You won't. I'll find you. Soon, Dean. I'll be there soon." Castiel gripped Dean's shoulder reassuringly before getting torn away by the wind and vanishing into the dust. Dean tried to run after him, skin and clothing buffeted by the wind, but the man was gone.

  
As he awoke, he felt warmth where Castiel had gripped him.

* * *

 

Dean stayed in Lawrence the next day, though he'd originally told Mary he was only staying the night. He couldn't shake the feeling that Castiel's visit had been more than just a dream, so he lingered, hoping to see the man in the waking world.

  
When he went out, he was distracted; everywhere he turned, he saw dark hair and blue eyes, but they never belonged to the right face. He began researching, spending the afternoon hunched over a laptop at the kitchen table, learning all he could about the name. Different sources said different things, though most claimed Castiel was an angel, the angel of Thursday. But after one too many palm-reader websites he gave up, groaning and writing it off as a weird, unusually vivid dream. Then he fired off an email to his editor, saying he'd send in his article the following evening, and wandered upstairs to check in on his mom.

  
She was grading papers at her desk, her back to Dean. As he entered, she hummed quietly, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Listen to this-- freshman English, bunch of fourteen-year-olds. Book report on a book of their choosing. You know what one student picked? Captain Underpants.”

  
Dean cracked a grin. “Kid's gonna go far, huh?”

  
“Yeah, all the way to the English tutor.” She laughed, scribbling in a final mark before swiveling around to face him. “What were you researching earlier? It's a bit soon for another hunt, isn't it?”

  
“Wasn't looking for a hunt. Actually, uh, I had a weird dream. I remembered a name from it and decided to check it out. Have you ever heard the name Castiel before?” he asked, wandering over to a shelf on the wall and running a finger over one of Sam's old soccer trophies. A bit of dust came off, which he rubbed away with his thumb.  
“No, I haven't,” Mary answered. “It sounds like the name of an angel.”

  
“Uh, yeah, it is, actually,” Dean said, continuing to wipe dust away from the trophy man's little golden face, not meeting her eye. After a beat, he added, “Angel of Thursday, in fact. That's about all I got.”

  
A frown creased Mary's brow. “Do you think it's something supernatural visiting you in your dreams? Or do you think you just picked up the name somewhere and it's been floating around in your subconscious ever since?”

  
He turned his attention away from the trophy. “Not sure. The dream was crazy vivid, you know? HD, surround sound, the works, and I can see the guy's face in my head like a photograph. But he didn't feel evil or anything. He--” Dean glanced at his mom guiltily. “He said he was coming. Soon. He told me. So, uh... If he is real, I guess I should warn you. But that's all he said.”

  
Mary blinked in surprise before saying, “Somehow, I doubt that he'd warn you he's coming if he is dangerous, Dean.”

  
“Do you think so?” Dean asked, biting his lip. “So what do you think he is?”

  
“I have no idea. He looked ordinary, right?” Dean nodded in response, and she continued. “If he is in fact real, he could just be a restless spirit or something. I've heard lore about spirits asking for help to cross the veil before. Maybe he was sent to you. But I really don't know, Dean. I'm not sure I like this, but there's nothing we can do but research and protect ourselves until he shows up, if he does show up.”

  
“So... wards? Anti-posession symbols? Salt lines?”

  
Mary nodded. “We should cover all the bases, just in case. If it's a real creature, it must have been powerful enough to enter your dreams, so we need to play it safe. I'll phone Sam and tell him to be extra careful over the next few days-- I know he's busy with finals, but his safety comes first.”

  
“Okay. Guess I'll get started with the salt lines. Tell Sammy I say hi, will ya?”

  
“I will. And Dean? Don't forget the basement window this time. We don't want a repeat of that ghoul.”

  
“Yes, Ma'am,” he said, a touch sarcastically, then more seriously. “I got it.”

  
“Then get to it,” she said, smiling faintly despite the worry in her eyes. “I'll make the call then join you.”

* * *

 

That evening, Mary convinced Dean to stay another night before returning to his apartment in Kansas City, not that he needed much convincing. He was too jittery for the drive, and when Mary told him she'd feel safer if he stayed, it gave him reason enough to stay another night.

  
Ever since John had died eight years previously, Dean made an effort to try to protect Sam and his mom, despite the fact that more often than not, she was the one protecting him. Although he had only been seventeen at the time, she taught him and Sam everything she knew that could protect them from creatures like the one that killed their dad. That's when the hunting began, though Mary hated it at first.

  
Dinner was a quiet affair. Dean uncharacteristically didn't have much of an appetite, and pushed the spaghetti around on his plate before calling it an early night.  
He didn't dream, though he slept fitfully, tossing and turning and waking up to the feeling that he hadn't slept at all. He left before breakfast the next morning, kissing his half-asleep mom goodbye and sliding behind the wheel of his black Chevrolet Impala.

  
The roads were mostly empty at 8 AM on a Sunday, and despite the tiredness behind his eyes, Dean Winchester relaxed, pushing in a Led Zepplin tape and drumming his fingers to the music. Behind the wheel and the open road, he felt in his element. His dad had been big on road trips when he was a kid, and as a result, the Impala always felt like a second home to him. As Kansas flew past his windows, the only worry on his mind was whether he had milk for a bowl of cereal in his apartment, or if he'd have to stop at the grocery store to grab some.

  
That worry flew out of his mind in the next instant, when the bleeding man materialized in the front seat.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, still writing it. Sorry for the slowness and the mediocrity. Thanks for reading!

Dean swerved instinctively, pulling the Impala to the roadside and braking hard. Both men were jerked forward-- Dean's seat belt stopped him from slamming against the wheel, but the man wasn't so restrained, and slammed against the dashboard with a groan. He fell back against the seat heavily, rolling his dark blue eyes to meet Dean's, pupils blown wide.

Recognition sent a chill down Dean's spine. "Castiel?" he asked, heart thundering in his chest.

"Yes, I'm Castiel," he said, "And you're...." he began, licking his lips and wincing. "A fucking awful driver."

"Driving straight when a bleeding man materializes in your car wasn't on the damn driving test." Dean loosened his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers. "Fuck," he breathed, staring at Castiel's blood-soaked trench coat. Dean could now see that he was only bleeding from his wrist, but there was a hell of a lot of blood. "That's getting everywhere. Are you alright?” He didn't wait for a response. “I have a first aid kit in the trunk. Stay put."

"Because I certainly have other available options right now," Castiel muttered.

Dean ignored him, climbing out of his car on shaky legs. An eighteen-wheeler shuttled past as he made his way to the trunk, unlocking it and reaching for the kit. He slipped a flask of holy water into his jacket pocket, as well, unwilling to take any chances.

He wasn't afraid of Castiel, especially not in his current state, but trusting someone, or something, he'd only met in a dream seemed pretty stupid. It still felt like he was dreaming, in fact.

Getting back into the car, he set the kit on his lap and extended the flask towards Castiel. "Drink this."

Castiel snorted, looking down at his hands. One had fingers white from blood loss, and the other, wrapped around his wrist, was entirely red from his attempts to stem the blood flow. "I'm not a demon, Dean, and you're welcome to try that out on me after I quit bleeding out, but I don't really have the hands to hold that right now."

Dean considered this for a moment. "Fine. But if you are a black-eyed son of a bitch, remember you owe me." He set the flask on the dashboard and started digging through the first aid kit.

Castiel laughed suddenly, causing Dean to look back up. "Owe me? You're so naive right now; you have absolutely no idea."

"What?"

"Demons owing you.” At Dean's glare, he hastily added, “No, it's good. I like this you."

"This me?"

Castiel cocked his head. "I'll explain later."

“Fine, but when you're at it, maybe tell me who the hell you are, too." He found antiseptic wipes in the kit and unwrapped one, unfolding the damp paper. Castiel extended his arm, peeling his bloody fingers from the sluggishly-bleeding wound. Dean got to work wiping away the worst of the blood. As he wiped, Castiel winced, closing his eyes and waiting patiently for Dean to finish.

As Dean cleaned Castiel's injury, he tried to focus on the task at hand, but failed. Who and what was Castiel, and how the hell did he know Dean? Dean wasn't stupid-- he'd heard and filed away the 'this you' remark, considering visions of the future, clones, and time travel as possible explanations. He had no idea what was happening, and was burning for answers. Dean hated flying blind. But until he had more information, there was nothing he could do.

When the wound was cleaned, Dean gave Castiel a bandage to press to it, saying, "I'm good with stitches, and you're gonna need them, but not here. I can do them when we're at my apartment. You good for me to drive?" he asked, snapping the first-aid box shut and putting it on the backseat.

Castiel nodded. "Yes, thank you. But first, for your peace of mind--" He reached for the holy water, uncapping it and taking a sip. "Not a demon. Voila." He twisted the cap back on and tossed it to Dean, who caught it one-handed, frowning slightly at the smear of blood on the flask.

"Thanks," Dean said, expression less than reassured. He turned the keys and pulled the Impala back onto the road as Castiel fastened his seat belt

After a pause, Castiel asked, "One down, a million to go, right?"

"What?"

"I'm not a demon. But I could be any number of other things, so you're not comforted."

"Why don't you just tell me what you are?"

"You won't believe me." Castiel watched Dean, though he kept his eyes on the road.

"Try me."

"You really won't."

"I'm a hunter. There's not much I don't believe in."

Castiel laughed. "If there's anything you don't do, Dean Winchester, it's believe."

"How do you know who I am, let alone what I believe in? Are you some kind of psychic or something?"

“No.”

That was one theory gone. "So what the hell are you?"

"Like I said, you won't believe me."

Dean tore his eyes from the road to glare at Castiel. "Fucking try me, at least."

"Fine. I'm human."

"Bullshit." Dean turned back to the road. "You friggin' teleported, and visited me in a dream."

"I may have utilized demon blood for a couple of spells."

"That's impossible."

"Clearly not. Try any test in the book and I'll come up human, Dean Winchester. You don't know everything."

"I know that what you're talking is impossible."

"No, you only believe that it's impossible. There's a difference."

Dean pursed his lips in frustration, pulling off the freeway and turning onto a wide road.

Castiel sighed. "I'll explain things to you, Dean, just not yet. Everything hurts right now and I just really want to be out of this stupid car already."

“Stupid? You do not insult a man's car!” Dean's tone was unbelieving.

"Fuck, sorry, I forgot you're romantically involved with it," Castiel apologized, rubbing his forehead with his unbloodied hand.

"Romantically involved? Who the hell--"

"Never mind it, Dean. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult your stupid car. I just lost a lot of blood and the pills are wearing off and, contrary to what you may believe, I am very much human, as well as very tired.” He let his hand rest over his eyes, wrinkling his nose, and added, “I am also experiencing the beginnings of what promises to be a truly magnificent headache.”

Dean frowned, glancing at the man sitting in the seat beside him. “Pills? You don't need me to take you to the hospital, do you? It's only about twenty minutes from here.”

Castiel's mouth twitched in a faint smile that faded into a small grimace as soon as it appeared. “They weren't the medicinal sort of pills. Bad decision. I'll be fine,” he said, hand still over his eyes.

Dean's eyebrows rose but he only shrugged. “I'll take your word for it.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Kansas trees and houses flashing past the windows. Castiel didn't move, and Dean assumed he'd fallen asleep. When Dean spared a glance towards him, he had to admit that he looked very human. Once again, his thoughts turned to why Castiel was there.

When Dean pulled into the garage of his apartment building and parked, Castiel stirred, groaning quietly and blinking his eyes open.

“Rise and shine,” Dean told him, leaning over to unfasten the man's seat belt

“Thanks,” Castiel muttered, fumbling with the door handle and climbing out of the car. He looked around at the garage with a slightly dazed expression, taking in the row of shiny cars under dim fluorescent lights. There were maybe two dozen cars, all in good condition, nicer than Castiel had seen since he was a little kid.

“Elevator's this way,” Dean said, interrupting his memories.

Castiel followed him to the elevator, where Dean pressed a button with an upward-facing arrow. He jumped a little at the dinging noise that followed when the doors opened.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Dean noticed Castiel stiffening and clenching his jaw. The elevator began rising, climbing with a whirr. Castiel's eyes remained locked on the floor numbers which lit up as they rose.

Claustrophobia, Dean guessed, but kept his mouth shut. Instead, he took advantage of Castiel's intent focus to get a better look at him. The man was a couple of inches shorter than him and about the same age, maybe a little older. His bloodstained trench coat hung loosely over him; he looked thinner than he should be. There were shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and on his jaw from lack of shaving. In the close quarters of the elevator, Dean could smell sweat and dirt and blood on Castiel, like he hadn't showered in a long time. Maybe he was nuts. Maybe he was homeless.

The elevator dinged again and opened on Dean's floor, and he walked down the hall to his door and Castiel followed like a shadow. His key clicked in the lock. The door swung open.

With the lights off, Dean's apartment looked more like a movie set than a home. The mostly-empty living room they walked into was filled with Ikea furniture-- a small flat-screen, glass coffee table, and faux leather loveseat, and a small kitchen illuminated by the morning sun. The hardwood floor was bare across the apartment, except for a small rug by the door on which they stood, and a strip of duct tape beneath it.

Dean watched Castiel cross the duct-tape-covered salt line and walk through the devil's trap under the rug before guiding him into the bathroom. Castiel sat on the edge of the bath tub and Dean sat beside him, first-aid supplies on his lap.

He got to work, threading shut the gash on Castiel's wrist wordlessly. The cut was deep but horizontal, and the pressure Castiel applied had slowed the bleeding to a sluggish ooze. Although Dean wasn't the most skilled at sewing up wounds and probably caused more pain than necessary, Castiel didn't flinch. Dean guessed the pills he'd taken were still working. Sitting in such close proximity, Dean could hear Castiel's breathing, though he didn't look up past the rise and fall of the man's chest.

When Dean finished, Castiel broke the silence.

“Thank you, Dean.”

A pause. Dean rose to his feet. “No problem. You wanna take a shower?”

“Yes, I would appreciate it,” Castiel said, rising as well.

“Towels are under the sink,” Dean said, “and I'll leave a change of clothes outside the door. Sound good?”

Castiel tilted his head, squinting slightly. “It sounds perfect. Thank you, Dean. You've had no reason to trust me but you've helped me immeasurably. I don't think I'll ever be able to properly repay you.”

Dean blinked, taken aback. “It's nothing, man. Just explain things when you get a chance, okay?”

Castiel nodded. “I will.”

Dean closed the door behind him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think, if you think anything at all.


End file.
